


The Making of a Widow

by sarssol



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Male Snuff, Prostitution, Snuff, emotionless sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarssol/pseuds/sarssol
Summary: A particularly wealthy man believes that money can buy him anything, or anyone. But when a higher bidder gets involved...An anonymous commission.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	The Making of a Widow

The Vishkar Charity Ball and Gala was an event whose existence rippled through the highest echelons of society. Held annually, it gathered the attention and presence of wealthy citizens the world over, all eager to attend and reap the positive PR of philanthropy. Held in a different scenic location each year, those fortunate—and rich—enough to score invites flocked like sparrows to attend.

Far fewer, however, were aware of its true form. A seedy underbelly of which only the richest of the rich were clued into, of an auction which the charity served to occlude. International law had no grasp on the goods put up to auction, and backroom deals that rocked nations had been formed there countless times. It was a social event utterly of its own, held late after the billionaires had made their requisite appearances at the mundane charity.

Naturally, when gathering the rich and powerful, such an event was equally a way to flaunt their own wealth. They arrived in only the finest dresses and immaculately tailored suits, flanked by disciplined guards or the most expensive of personal security drones. Some were gaudy, practically dripping gold and jewelry from their excessive gowns, while others went for the subtle understatement of simple suits handcrafted by men whose commission rivaled the GDP of some nations.

Faced with such competition, one egregiously wealthy media mogul felt that his display blew them all out of the water. It wasn’t a gauche arrangement of valuables, or a surly arrangement of high-paid bodyguards. Rather, clinging to his arm as the mogul stepped out of his limo was a piece of eye candy whose beauty alone was well worth her price tag, but those in the know would be aware of how much more she had to offer.

Her flawless violet skin drew attention even from those less aware, but what truly stuck out was the tattoos. In her silky black halter-top dress, the elegant curve of the woman’s back was uncovered, leaving exposed the dark legs of a familiar arachnid. Though silken gloves covered her forearms, a few traceries of black ink winding higher put truth to the spiderwebs marked there, and the words those informed knew that they would find.

_Araignée du soir, cauchemar_ , and a black widow upon her back.

Widowmaker.

The media mogul had contracted none other than the premiere assassin of Talon as little more than a piece of arm candy. The smug expression on his face certainly made it obvious he was aware of exactly how incredible a feat it was—Talon wasn’t exactly a mercenary group, making the bill to get Widowmaker on his arm nothing to sneer at, even among their kind. The assassin herself had a look of mere disdainful apathy practically etched upon her supermodel-esque face, the only expression he had seen from her at all.

The ludicrous expenditure was well worth it for the naked look of envy upon the faces of those who thought themselves his peer, however. Many a man in the hall would kill to be in his position, and he was perfectly aware of it. The French assassin was alluring in the deadliest way, in an outfit that accentuated every aspect of her loveliness. Stiletto heels near sharp enough to crack the tile made her elegant stride all the longer, and allowed an exceptionally tempting slice of violet thigh to show through the slit in her dress that extended neatly up the side of her hip. A hip that swiveled almost excessively with each step, only magnifying that most magnificent feature of hers.

He only wished he could see the look on his soon-to-be ex-wife’s face when news got around. Who knew there were downsides to a separation? But that hardly mattered: He had an auction to participate in, and the loveliest assassin with the greatest ass to parade in front of his compatriots. And he had her for the entire evening, meaning it was sure to end with a bang. Perhaps he would even take a picture or two, to really rub his wife’s nose in it?

Something to look forward to, for sure.

Amélie was bored out of her mind. Being led around a hotel ballroom standing near-silently next to an overweight billionaire was far from the most exciting mission Talon had ever assigned her. It felt like her already unnaturally slow heart-rate was practically ready to stop from the sheer tedium, even as she clutched at the media mogul’s arm just as her role said she should.

It was scoff-worthy the way Amélie nearly had to bend over just to do so—she stood several inches above him even without the ridiculous heels he had provided. Six inches were nothing to the trained dancer’s grace, yet it made her wonder all the more about the client’s taste. The dress was lovely, at least, for all that her thong seemed to be attempting a break for freedom through the crack of her ass. It felt like a lifetime ago since she had dressed in such finery, and yet it was for such a purpose.

The client himself was quite a piece of work as well. As the owner of several large and corrupt news corporations, his personality could best be described as loud and arrogant. Nor did he seem to have much to say, despite all the talking he did. It didn’t bother Amélie too much, really. Morality meant little to a Talon assassin, and boredom was like an old friend to any sniper. Amélie was a very good sniper, to say the least. Attending to him was the order of her superiors, and her body was but a tool to carry out that task.

That was why she hardly even arched a manicured eyebrow when, after the auction started and she found herself alone with the media mogul in his private booth, the man unzipped his fly and gestured for her to kneel in front of his chair. It was predictable, really, given the way he had been sneaking subtle and not so subtle squeezes of her body the whole evening. Amélie could only consider it lucky that he was well groomed, for all his lack of fitness, and so it was merely a faint taste of sweat that greeted her tongue as she obeyed.

He knew that shelling out for the Talon sniper had been worth it. To say nothing of her looks, the woman’s mouth was amazing—after he got accustomed to the odd, lukewarm nature of it. Widowmaker didn’t even protest when he made her bob there for the duration of the auction, when most whores would have been whining in half the time. The languid motion of her tongue across his shaft was a nice distraction from the bidding going on on the screen in front of him.

The mogul barely cared about any of the art on display. He would still make sure to go home with a few of the more expensive pieces, just to cement his dominance over the rest of the rabble, but his real prize was busy between his legs. Or not so busy, really, just continuing her slow up and down with that same bored expression. He doubted she would hold up so well once he was pounding her raw.

The assassin’s mildly curious glance upwards went unanswered as the man began the chuckle. The mogul didn’t have to explain himself, after all, not to a whore, no matter how expensive. She existed for his satisfaction—and he planned to get his fill. Blowing his load down her tight throat was only the beginning.

Which was why only a few hours later found them in the penthouse suite of the same egregiously expensive resort hosting the auction. Just one more display of his obscene wealth earned through his decades in the business, and one more way to lord it over others. And more importantly, the perfect place to finally lay into the assassin.

Widowmaker could have rivaled any of the works up for auction as she sprawled across the silken sheets of the suite’s massive bed. Her dress had been abandoned on the mogul’s command, dropped to pool upon the floor like a rag as she was carelessly exposed. The heels he let her keep, along with the minuscule slip of fabric that was her thong.

For an assassin, she had an incredible body. Even if her chest wasn’t much more than a handful, the massive swell of her hips and rear made up for it in every way. A man could lose himself in that ass—but the mogul had other plans. He outright tore Widowmaker’s thong off, the last barrier between him and his true prize.

The slight hiss of irritation at the underwear momentarily digging into her thighs didn’t warrant a change of expression from the stuck-up sniper, but he didn’t mind. The sight of the assassin’s shaved snatch brought enough of a smile to his own face, already flushed and visibly dripping. They would just have to see how long she could keep up that ice queen facade with him rearranging her insides.

Amélie was bored out of her mind. A contract was a contract, so the media mogul effectively owned her for the course of the night. And yet, this was not an activity that got her heart racing anymore. Particularly not with his weight pressing atop her, jerkily thrusting inside. Nor did it help that his size and technique were… mediocre, were it to be said kindest.

Certainly, some of Talon’s less savory training had her body responding well to it nonetheless, providing lubrication he hadn’t thought to offer. Her experienced kegels even ensured that the man enjoyed it plenty, based on his grunting, for all that Amélie simply laid there with her legs spread. Still, her lack of a reaction seemed to prick the mogul’s ego somewhat, practically making him spit a command that nearly had her laugh.

He desired she cease playing the part of a ‘dead fish’, did he? The experienced sniper didn’t need to check any clock: her mental time keeping was near flawless, and that told her it was well approaching morning and the end of his agreement with Talon.

Which meant she had some time to kill.

The mogul wasn’t sure what had just happened. One moment he had been shouting down at her, and the next was a blur. Widowmaker had moved like a woman possessed, somehow flipping them without ever releasing the near-painfully tight grip of her slit around his shaft. Now she was on top, staring down with that same damned expression… if only a hair smugger.

He blinked up at her as his mind caught up with the motion, only for the assassin to begin moving again. Widowmaker’s well-cushioned rear clapped against his crotch with more fervor than he had thought her capable of showing. The violet woman was not content to merely ride him, however.

She leaned forwards as she worked her hips in ways that sent his mind reeling, sliding a hand up his chest and sending buttons flying from the rich man’s shirt. The touch of her black-painted nails left a burning line across the mogul’s newly exposed form, so different to the cool indifference of her expression. He couldn’t find the words he wanted to speak as her face drew near—or the breath to speak them, as the motion of her hips grew more violent.

It felt as if it was taking every neuron in his mind just to keep breathing as Widowmaker’s hips crashed against his own. The violet woman’s slit seemed as if it was practically trying to tear his dick off with how it grasped and clung to him, even as she raised her rear for another slam down. It felt so amazing that the billionaire didn’t even notice as the assassin’s hands crept up from his shoulders, coming together to wrap around his throat.

The power in the gorgeous woman’s body couldn’t be denied, and there was nothing he could do to stop her when he felt those hands clamp down tight. That imagined difficulty breathing became all too real, even as it seemed to surge the amount of blood flowing through his dick. It was euphoria—and asphyxia.

The media mogul’s struggles achieved nothing, and black spots grew before his eyes even as he felt himself coming to a greater peak than ever in his life. Mere moments before darkness overtook his vision, he saw something unbelievable. A smile, however faint, on Widowmaker’s lips as she spoke.

“ _C'est l'heure de ton rendez-vous avec la petite mort._ ”

Amélie preened as she got dressed once more, enjoying that warmth in her core. It was rare for her to truly feel anything, and all the more for it to be such a satisfying orgasm. It seems as if that man wasn’t so worthless after all—for all that his body’s instinctive final attempt at spreading young would come to naught, slowly dripping its way out of her.

The beautiful sniper settled the dress back in place with one last pat, before moving to complete her mission. A picture of the corpse’s face, trapped mid-orgasm in a grotesque combination of lust and horror, was exactly the proof she needed. Sent from the deceased mogul’s own phone, there wasn’t even any need to make use of the number she had memorized.

A vindictive not-quite-ex-spouse was quite a dangerous enemy to make, when they had the resources to become a client of Talon’s.


End file.
